Framed

18

Von Joel’s shorn hair looked lopsided and rather strange, and a few bruises were still visible on his face, but for a man who had been through major trauma and had only just come out of the hospital, he looked remarkably fit. As his handcuffs were unclocked he ran his gaze around the seedy bedroom. He sighed quietly as the police officer pocketed the cuffs and left him. As a comedown this place was spectacular. It was not simply seedy and scruffy and terminally downbeat; it was dirty. The rug was colorless with ingrained dirt, there was dirt on the window ledge and walls, he could smell dirt when he inhaled. The light in the room came from a single weak bulb coated with a film of dirt. McKinnes appeared at the doorway. He held up a sheet of paper. “Where’s Jackson?” Von Joel asked. “Your pal Min ton says he wasn’t on the robbery. He’s don’t an alibi. Same one he had last time.” Von Joel delicately pinched the skin between his eyebrows with his forefinger and thumb. He looked at his narrow bed with weary eyes. “His word against mine,” he said.

“Oy, look at me.” McKinnes came into the room. “I’m not here to play games, Eddie. You’ve got more, I need more.”

“And I’ve got a headache.”

McKinnes considered the situation. It was Saturday night. It was settling-in time. On top of that, all things considered, the prisoner couldn’t be feeling too grand. McKinnes decided he would go easy until they got down to the organized, on-the-record questioning first thing Monday morning. From then on there would be no kid gloves, no cotton wool. One way or another, easy or the hard way, Mr. Smartarse would come up with the goods.

“Sweet dreams, Eddie.” McKinnes walked out of the bedroom. Von Joel glanced at his bags, made a face as he sniffed the air again. He went to the window and peered out past the curtain. There was nothing to see through the streaky grime. He dropped the curtain back in place and turned to the door again, frowning. He knew the set-up had been radically changed, too radically, and he would bet not all of the changes were visible yet.

“Where’s Jackson?” he whispered.

Larry had nursed his wrath for the entire weekend. He brought it to the Hyde Park Hotel fresh and still simmering on Monday afternoon, after hanging around the station all morning trying, without any luck, to get a word with McKinnes. He drummed his fingers on the desk as the receptionist called Suite 340.

“It’s ringing, sir.”

Staying mad had been easy. The kids had played merry hell with his nerves and Susan had managed to say and do all the wrong things, over and over, in every permutation. Disruption and aggravation had been piled on his brooding. The brooding itself had been bad enough; isolation from the case had begun to give him a degree of unrest amounting to actual pain. All weekend, every time he thought of what had been done to him at St. John’s Row, he wanted to yell. He wanted to lash out and hit something and pretend he had smashed the hairy vindictive kisser of Jimmy McKinnes.

There had been no corner of peace for Larry. Home was a bear garden, a noise-pit with the kids yelling and banging and Susan alternately squeaking and whining. Whenever he tried retreating into himself, thinking of his breakthrough night with Lola, the sexual jolt was short-circuited by the recollection of her malicious antics on the phone. All in all, the weekend had been undiluted misery, and now he wanted to share some of that.

“You can go right up, sir.”

He hadn’t rehearsed what he would say to Lola, he knew it would come out under its own steam and at the right pace; all he had to do was aim it. Leaving the lift he strode along the passage and knocked on the door hard, twice. He tensed himself.

The door clicked and swung open. He saw Lola walking away from him. She was barefoot, wearing a silk robe, her hips swaying like a voluptuous metronome to the pulse of the music pouring from the stereo unit. It was turned up full blast, a recording of Caruso that Larry had heard before, blaring through the bedroom wall at the safe house.

He followed her into the sitting room, slamming the door behind him. Lola stopped in front of the stereo, gazing down at it, swaying, her arms wrapped around her tight little body. “Listen to him,” she said without turning. “Listen to the way he reaches the high notes with such softness. It’s magic. Pure magic. The decrescendo to pianissimo on the final B flat — oh, Pavarotti and Domingo can’t touch him...”

Larry was furious. He had been ready to explode all over her and she had deliberately pulled this defusing tactic. He leaned forward and hit the stop button on the tape deck. He spun Lola to face him and held up a warning finger to her face.

“You don’t call my home. Ever. You hear me?”

For one beat she stared, wide-eyed, then she flew at him. Her left fist cracked on his ear and her right hand delivered a stinging slap to his right cheek. He reeled back.

“If it wasn’t for you,” she screeched, “he wouldn’t be locked up! It’s all your fault!”

“I...” Larry blinked at her, rubbing his cheek. “I just don’t understand you—”

“But I understand you, Larry.” The tightness of anger vanished from her face. Her eyes softened as she stepped closer to him. “I know what you came here for.” She took his hand. “Well? You want it?”

With her other hand she undid the sash of her robe. It fell open. Larry tried not to stare. Her body was a compact miracle. She stood with her hips thrust forward, the smooth line of her belly drawing his gaze to the compelling darkness at the junction of her thighs.

There was a sound behind the bedroom door. Larry looked at it, looked at Lola, then strode across the room. He twisted the handle and threw open the bedroom door. Charlotte Lampton lay on the bed. She was naked.

“Hi,” she said, smiling, her hand coming up from the far side of the bed with a bottle of champagne. “Want a drink?”

Lola turned on the Caruso tape again. She crept up behind Larry and put her arm around his shoulder.

“If you orgasm to Verdi’s B-flat aria in Aida then you will never believe opera is boring. It will give you...”

The rest was a moan as Lola wrapped herself around Larry, her hands sliding over him like small busy animals, her mouth hot with sighs and groans against his ear. Larry tried halfheartedly to extricate himself, his anger completely gone. Embarrassment and discomfort melted toward arousal as Lola fitted herself around him and he watched, over her perfumed hair, as Charlotte stretched out along the bed, still smiling at him.

A few miles away, while Larry’s afternoon became a sensual tangle, DCI McKinnes was two thirds of the way into a bad day’s interrogation. He was in the grubby, damp-smelling living room of the substitute safe house with Von Joel. They sat at opposite sides of a prosaic square dining table, their fingers flat on its scarred surface, each confronting the other with his stubbornness. The day had gone terribly, and now it was simply disintegrating.

“Don’t mess me around,” McKinnes snarled, knowing it was a powerless warning, saying it because it was all he could think of. He leaned close across the table, bunching his fists, trying for an air of authority. “So you can’t help me with Minton. What about this Rodney Bingham?”

“I don’t know him,” Von Joel said, his voice flat. “I must have been mistaken.”

“I’ve warned you,” McKinnes growled.

“Listen!” Von Joel jerked forward suddenly, his teeth set hard. “I just got out of hospital and you bring me to this shit hole...” He turned his head aside sharply, addressing the microphone. “I’m a sick man! I gave you all I know!” He sat back a fraction, moistening his lips, glaring at McKinnes. “Anything else, I’ll give it to Jackson, not you. That was the deal.”

He got up from the table and walked out. McKinnes watched him go, feeling angry, getting angrier. It was one thing to be resisted by a dirty grass of a villain like Von Joel, to be slagged off by him and treated like any old clumsy piece of plod. It was quite another thing to be forced into a corner so tight that you seriously had to consider compromising. That didn’t sit well with McKinnes. Making concessions wasn’t his way and to think about it gave him a pain. But realities had to be faced. It wasn’t as if he was weighed down with choices.

Larry’s day had been transformed from a hot ball of rage to a hedonistic mix of sex, good drink, and laughter, all of it enjoyed against a backdrop of lofty music. More surprise entered the picture when he was sent home at six o’clock to put on his best suit. He complied without even thinking of arguing.

Champagne, he discovered, made him an imaginative and plausible liar; by the time he left the house again he could not remember what explanation he had given Susan, but he knew she had accepted it calmly. Lola and Charlotte, as promised, picked him up at the end of the road in a taxi.

“So where are we going, girls?”

They wouldn’t tell him, and three guesses would not have been enough. Less than an hour later he was sitting in a good seat at the Royal Opera House, between the girls, his mind not entirely in touch with his body as the music swelled and flowed over him, doing things of such emotional intensity that at one point, to his surprise, he found himself shedding tears. The visit to the Crush Bar was memorable. It seemed like hundreds of people were there, all talking at once, arms working overtime as bottles of wine, trays of glasses, and the occasional ice bucket were passed back above the heads of the crowd. A man standing near Larry told his companion, a big woman in shiny salmon-colored taffeta, that the trouble with opera in general was that it had strayed too far from the simple notion of a play set to music. “It has turned its back, I fear, on the liturgical drama of the Middle Ages, where its true origins lie.” Larry could hardly believe real people spoke like that, but there the man was, in three dimensions, the living proof. It would have been a hoot to eavesdrop when he got around to suggesting that he and his date get into bed together.

“Follow me,” Lola told Larry, shaking him out of his reverie.

He did his best. She was a fast mover. Being small and lithe she was able to weave in and out of spaces where Larry had to force his way through, smiling and apologizing, followed closely by Charlotte hanging on to the back of his jacket.

“Ah, hang on, Lola,” he called out, “you’re going the wrong way. Lola...” He bumped into a woman and apologized. “Lola! The bar...”

Hectic as all this was, Larry felt marvelous. The high life suited him, it meshed precisely with who he was. He was only sorry he hadn’t discovered it earlier. Lola stopped by a small corner table and turned, brandishing a bottle of Moet. Three glasses lay waiting for them. The bottle had been freshly opened and Lola poured.

“It’s not as cold as it should be...” She passed over the glasses. “For you, for me...”

The trio toasted each other. Larry couldn’t stop grinning, knowing what a social bonus it was to be seen with the girls, who looked marvelous. Feeling champagne bubbles burst softly against his lips, he felt blessed. Charlotte’s arm was through his, Lola was standing very close, sliding her hand down the back of his trousers. He supposed it was possible to be happier than this, but he couldn’t imagine how.

It wasn’t imagination he needed, but stamina, because Lola insisted he return to the hotel suite. She was hungry, demanded they all eat, and as Charlotte flicked through the room service menu suggesting more and more desserts and cocktails, Lola began ordering a confusion of ice creams, hamburgers, French fries, strawberries, melons...

They were like two kids let loose in a toy store. They giggled and snuggled each other, and then both made Larry choose what he wanted to eat. He was in a hot flush, wondering if he could get up to leave, never mind get anything else up, which seemed the girls’ obvious intention. They continued to flirt with him, giving lewd double meanings to the array of sickening desserts that sounded richly orgasmic... “banana diced with a thick caramel sauce and succulent fresh cream with brandy...”

The opera was blasting from the stereo again — Wagner. The room service trolley, laden with enough to feed ten, was set in the center of the room. There was wine and yet more champagne. Larry watched in awe as they picked at french fries between spoonfuls of ice cream and fresh fruit, then stuffed themselves with chocolate fudge, eating with their fingers, sometimes spooning food into each other’s mouths. They were like his two boys — well, not quite, but they, too, went crazy at McDonalds.

Thinking about the boys made Larry determined to leave. He did try, albeit halfheartedly, but then Lola wouldn’t give back his jacket, and as he tugged and said he really had to go, Charlotte seemed to disappear. Lola suddenly let the jacket go, and Larry teetered backward.

“We’re alone, she’s tired, we-are-aloooooooooone.”

“So am I, tired. I’ve got to go.” He had got one arm into a sleeve, when she began pulling his shirt out of his pants.

“If you are tired then you had better sleep.”

“I’ve got to go home.”

Lola shrugged, pointed to the door, undressing herself as she slowly walked across to the bedroom.

“I have to go home,” he repeated lamely.

Lola threw off her dress. She wore nothing beneath it, she stood in just her high black sling-back shoes.

“Go home. Good night.” She shrugged as she kicked one shoe off, then the next, and, stark naked, went back to the stereo. She nonchalantly began sorting tapes, humming and swaying and then bent over to place in a new tape.

Larry turned away, she was driving him crazy. “I won’t... I mean I can’t see you again.”

Swan Lake drifted out. Lola turned like a ballerina. “Oh! Are you still here, would you like to see me dance?”

She moved beautifully, her delicate arms and beautiful hands made the motion of the swan. She stood on tiptoe, every curve, every muscle taut in her perfect body, apart from the swaying fluttering hands.

“I am dying,” she whispered. “The swan without her prince, she dies.” She began to dance.

Larry closed the door quietly behind him and had to lean on it because he wanted to go back to her, wanted to hold her, wanted her. He could still hear the music, knew she would still be dancing, perhaps. Even knew she didn’t really care if he stayed or left.

“I think he’s quite attractive,” said Charlotte to Lola, who was now spread out on the sofa, eyes closed.

Lola’s voice was husky, hardly audible. “I miss him, Charlie, miss him so much, it’s like a pain inside me. I miss him.”

Charlotte turned off the stereo, looked at Lola. “You’re drunk.”

“Yes, and” — Lola giggled — “you know he is quite attractive... in a straight way.”

Charlotte cocked her head to one side. “Well, you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you...?”

Lola walked into the bedroom, leaving Charlotte to turn off the lights and stereo.

Charlotte picked up the Caruso tape, held it in the palm of her hand. Lola was childlike, her emotions swung like a pendulum, but Charlotte really did miss Philip. He occupied her thoughts every minute of the day and night, and just feeling the tape of the music he loved to listen to made him feel close. She remembered the first time he had asked her about music, what she liked to listen to... He was so attenitive as she shyly said she had never really thought about that kind of music, mostly it was rock and roll. The classics had never even interested her. He smiled, asked softly what she meant by classics, and Charlotte listed a few of the ones she could remember the names of. She was embarrassed, wondered if he would think her stupid, desperately trying to think of something she had heard that would make her seem intelligent, wanting him to be interested in her. He gently touched her lips with his forefinger. “You’ve heard nothing. I will open your ears, and your mind, free you to listen...”

She stood blushing, head bowed as he threw cushions onto the floor. He turned all the lights out and lit row upon row of candles. Then, taking her by the hand, he had whispered to her to lie down and to breathe deep breaths... until she felt as if she were floating, dizzy almost. She was afraid to open her eyes, not hearing him, not knowing where he was in the room. Then she knew he had lain down beside her, no more than six or seven inches away. She could feel the heat of his body, hear that he, too, was breathing deeply, and she began to time her own breaths with his, as first Beethoven, Bruch, Chausson, Saint-Saens, Sibelius, and lastly Tchaikovsky violin concertos wafted through the warm night air. The music played softly, at times hardly audible, and she felt her body begin to open to the sounds, her mind full with a strange exhilaration. She felt a strange uplifting sensation, she didn’t want it to end, ever. It was so peaceful, so all-embracing that when the room was filled only with silence she wanted to weep.

He had gone. The candles were burned low. She could not believe he had not touched her, fondled her, made love to her. She did not even hear him leave, and it was not until she had crept to her room that she understood that he had, or it had, begun. He was drawing her to him, into his world, and all she knew was that she wanted more. Had it been the same for Lola? Charlotte never asked, but noticed that Lola often played the same music to fall asleep to at night. For a while at the beginning Charlotte was the one he centered his whole attention upon, and she had, like the proverbial butterfly, stepped from a cocoon that she had not even understood had been wrapped around her. Von Joel made her feel free, and an important part of his life. She ached for him, on one of those candlelit musical nights, to take her in his arms, to kiss her. But Von Joel did not touch her, was it for weeks or for months? It felt like years of longing. Was he fucking Lola? Lola lived in the villa, had been there before Charlotte, but had never shown any jealousy following Charlotte’s arrival. In fact, Lola had welcomed her with such warmth, accepted her like a sister.

The ache inside Charlotte grew to such intensity that one night she waited, watching where Lola went — to her own room or to his? She was almost weeping with sexual frustration, wanting him, not knowing how to reach over and touch him. They could sit opposite at a table and eat, laugh, work alongside each other at the gallery, but that moment of reaching him, embracing him seemed almost impossible to attain. She did not know if he wanted her sexually, or if he even cared. She saw him go into Lola’s bedroom, and he did not leave until dawn. Charlotte sat on the stairs crying; she wanted to be in there with him, wanted to be with him.

The following night, Lola was in bed. She was feeling sick, and Charlotte had taken her some hot milk to her bedroom. Von Joel had been gone all day, and Charlotte heard him running up the stairs two at a time as Maria called out Lola was ill.

“I think she has a temperature...” Charlotte placed the milk down, leaning over the bed, and Lola sat up smiling, reaching out for him like a child. “I’m fine, just hot... very hot, it must have been something I ate.”

Von Joel gently dipped a cloth into some iced water and patted Lola’s face. Charlotte stood back as he washed Lola like a father might wash a daughter. Then he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her on the lips. “Sleep, sweetheart, you’ll feel better in the morning. I’ll get Maria to look in on you in the night.”

Maria, Von Joel’s housekeeper, respected him, his privacy, and asked no questions. It was not her business how many houseguests he chose to have, male or female, young or old.

Charlotte listened as he gave Maria careful instructions to look in on Lola in the night. If her temperature went up, Maria was to call him and the doctor.

Charlotte was standing at the top of the wide spiral staircase in the villa. Von Joel looked up, saying, “You must be hungry. I’m going to make some pasta...”

He was very adept in the kitchen, neat and methodical, and an excellent cook. Charlotte sat at the table, watching as he placed out the knives and the forks, talking to Maria, who was flustered because she felt she should be cooking. Charlotte watched him tease Maria, saw how she became coy and girlish, and then excused herself to go to her own small apartment in the far wing of the villa. Her husband, Juan, was Von Joel’s driver and general handyman. He was as discreet as his wife, and as deeply attached to Von Joel. The villa with its sprawling gardens and pool was, like everything in each room, tasteful, and kept in immaculate order. The kitchen was spotless, and Charlotte noticed how clean Von Joel was, as he carefully washed everything after he had used it before stacking the dishwasher and wiping down the marble surfaces where he had been chopping the tomatoes. She noticed everything about this man, his long beautiful hands, his lean body, and the way his dark hair curled at the nape of his neck. How in the morning the faint dark shadow on his chin accentuated his cheeks, making his face sharper, more dangerous in some way. She had, when alone in the villa, spent hours in his bedroom, which was devoid of a single photograph. The bedroom consisted of a stripped pine floor, a futon bed, and a vast array of polished old Spanish wardrobes. Each garment in the wardrobes was covered. Every shirt was neatly, meticulously folded.

Hand-stitched shoes, made for him in London, were placed on racks beside his worn rope sandals. There were silks and fine pure cottons, cashmere sweaters in soft fawns and pale creams, black and navy silks in separate drawers. Von Joel rarely wore any brightly colored garment. As soon as he returned from work he always bathed and changed into his pure white dressing gown and his long handmade cotton shifts. He was usually barefoot, his body deeply tanned... and Charlotte lost count of the laps he did in the pool every morning. She loved to watch him with his dogs, Sasha and Bruno. It was as if every day were carefully regimented: up at five, swimming, and then he would walk his dogs for an hour, always feeding them himself. He made it clear he preferred, at these times, to be alone. He discouraged her from using the phone and hated anyone else answering it when he was at home. There was no answering service but there were phones in every room. Often he let them ring, choosing not even to answer them himself, and often there were calls during the night. These were answered.

The food Von Joel had prepared was placed in front of Charlotte with a flourish. The wine was uncorked, and he poured a glass for her, but drank only water himself. He rarely, if ever, drank, and loathed anyone smoking.

Charlotte waited for him to be seated. He had once quietly suggested to her that it was polite to wait for him to sit before she ate, and when they all dined together they waited until Maria had served the meal before beginning to eat.

“You like it? Maybe too much garlic, not enough basil? What do you think?”

Charlotte shrugged, and he stared at her. “I asked if you liked it or not...?”

“It’s fine!”

“Fine? Does that mean you like it, or it’s just so-so?”

“It’s nice.”

“Nice?”

She flushed, and he gave an irritated sigh, and then began to discuss a new painter he had discovered and for whom he would arrange a show in his smaller gallery. Charlotte by this time had lived in the villa for one month. She had gone into the gallery for the first time six weeks previously. Von Joel had been standing viewing a painting, and had turned to watch her as she, too, looked over the canvases. He had been charming but dismissive, and had talked a few moments to Lola before he had left. Lola had asked if she was staying in Marbella, or just on vacation. Soon Charlotte was offered a job working in the gallery, and she didn’t return to England until the arrest of Von Joel.

Charlotte turned off the lights and went into the bedroom. Lola was sleeping, hugging the pillow in her arms, her face like an innocent child’s. Charlotte quietly washed her face and cleaned her teeth in the en suite bathroom.. Von Joel’s bathroom at the villa was like an Aladdin’s cave of perfumes and creams. He was almost obsessive about cleanliness, and because he spent a lot of time in the sun, and swimming, his body oils took up an entire shelf. The sudden realization that he was in the hospital hurt, and unexpectedly made her want to weep. She sat on the edge of the bath, tears streaming down her cheeks, but she didn’t cry out loud, she didn’t want to wake Lola. She missed his presence so much. She missed his strength, his whole being with such intensity that she began to shake uncontrollably.

Von Joel had chosen all her dresses, shoes, even her underwear, but without her really being aware of it. He had also chosen Lola’s clothes, but it had been such fun, the three of them going on mammoth shopping expeditions, returning to the villa laden with purchases, all designer labels. But at no time did he ever say, I want you to wear this, or that, he just smiled when they paraded in front of him, and that was all the indication the two girls required. He had a smile that made the darkness in his face boyish, and often when that sweet smile appeared he was the vulnerable one. Even his wide dark green eyes seemed different when he smiled; they were so clear, yet she had seen them become frightening, like chips of hard granite. The sweet smile that appeared so fleetingly was often a tight hard line. That was the cruel face she saw when something, usually someone on the end of the night telephone calls, said or did something that made him unleash his anger. Yet he rarely raised his voice. He enjoyed the control he had over his emotions and it was that control she had found impossible to break, or to see through in order to understand if he ever had any feelings for her.

Charlotte, under Von Joel’s instruction, began to run the small gallery; Lola ran the larger one. He would make fleeting appearances, and often he would disappear for days on end. They never knew where he was, and he never divulged his whereabouts. There was the vast antiques warehouse, and shipments were constantly arriving, but neither Charlotte nor Lola had any knowledge of that part of his business. The galleries ran at a loss, but it did not seem to concern Von Joel, and it was never the girls’ job to bank or settle the accounts. Money was never short, it was always in supply, and in their innocence both girls believed him to be a man of private wealth. They rarely, if ever, met any of his contacts or friends, and they had no idea that he was laundering vast amounts of stolen money, that he was a criminal. Von Joel used his powerful Monterey boat on weekends, sometimes for simple fishing trips, and then the girls were welcomed aboard. At other times he made it clear he wished to be alone. They knew he was well known in Marbella, and many evenings watched from the balcony as he drove out in the Rolls, waving to them as if they were his children rather than one his mistress, the other besotted and desperate to become his lover. They even saw him occasionally with other women, older, sophisticated women, but he never brought them back to the villa. Social invitations were stacked on his desk, he was exceptionally popular, and his art shows were always well attended, the champagne flowed, and he was as charming to every guest as he was to his two little girls. Lola did not seem to mind, but it became torture for Charlotte. Her eyes followed him, jealous, envious of any woman he was attentive to, until, after one of his art shows, she could not stand it a moment longer.

Perhaps the champagne had given her the courage, but she went to his bedroom, didn’t even knock, but walked in. He was lying facedown on his bed, deeply asleep. The pure Egyptian cotton sheet was draped across his buttocks, his lean muscular body stretched out, his arms wide. Charlotte let her nightdress fall to the ground, drew back the sheet, and slipped in to lie beside him. He stirred, half turned, and rolled over.

“I love you, I love you...”

He looked into her determined, quivering face, reached up, and traced her cheek with his forefinger.

“Do you now?”

“Yes, and I can’t bear it another day, another hour, without being close to you. I want you...”

“Do you now?”

“I don’t know what you feel, if you like me, I don’t understand you, I don’t understand what you want.”

He leaned his head on his elbow, looking down into her young, beautiful face. “You are living in my home. Doesn’t that mean anything to you — that you are inside my home, my territory.”

“I don’t understand why... why you let me here, when you don’t seem to... I know about you and Lola, so why have you got me here?”

“Don’t you like it here?”

“Yes, I’ve never been so happy...”

“Ah, you are happy, are you?”

“No, no, I am... I want...” She just couldn’t get the words out, couldn’t say she wanted him.

“What is it you want?”

“You, I want you...” She’d said it.

He spoke so softly, it was hardly audible. “I am here.”

There were no more than seven or eight inches between them, but he never moved. He kept on looking at her, watching her. She felt as if she were about to explode. Did she only have to reach out? Was it that simple...? She could feel her short, sharp, panting breaths. She moved a fraction closer, closer... she could feel the heat from him, was about to touch him, when she drew back.

“No, you come to me...”

She threw the sheet aside and all her sexual frustration turned into blazing anger. Did he want some slave, was that what he was after? The clothes? The villa? She wanted to hit him as he lay there smiling, watching her, playing around with her when he knew, knew how she felt.

“ ‘I am here!’... Is that all?... Fuck you! I’m not some kid you can turn into your little whore! Is that what you want?... Is that what you’ve done to Lola? I’m leaving...” He rolled onto his back and laughed. She threw herself at him, fists flying. He was so strong he simply gripped her wrists tightly, and drew her down beside him. He bent his head to bury it in her neck, and emitted what sounded like a low growl. His bite was hard, hurting her, and she struggled, kicked out at him. Then he released her wrists, and gently cupped her face between his hands. He kissed her. He was a gentle lover, an aggressive lover, a man who made love to the sweetest creature he had known in years, a frightened little girl he had turned into the woman he wanted. He knew she would never betray him and that was more important to him than anything else. He lived on an edge, always looking over his shoulder, and now he had and knew he had another pair of eyes that would watch his back, that would join with Lola’s like his two guard dogs; his two beauties would be wary of strangers, be protective, guard him, obey him.

Late the following morning Charlotte went down to breakfast. Lola was sitting, eating a thick wedge of home-baked bread. The coffee was steaming, the kitchen smelled of fresh-ground coffee. Maria was singing somewhere in the villa. There was the aroma of fresh beeswax and the gentle perfume of the hanging blossoms on the verandah. The dogs barked lazily. Lola turned, her face smeared with Maria’s homemade jam. She looked at Charlotte, threw her bread aside, and held out her arms. Charlotte felt the sweet, sticky kisses on her cheeks, and then Lola drew her to the table and pulled out a chair.

Charlotte could not remember a time when she had felt more complete, happier, and above all safe. The villa was so strong, like a fortress, and it was... for the first time it felt like her home. Beneath the table Lola’s bare feet rested against Charlotte’s, and she smiled...

“He’s swimming, and then we are going to the boat. He is going to take you fishing.”

There was no jealousy between the two girls. They both loved him, both felt loved. It was enough. What might have happened at a later date they would never discover, because the following week Philip Von Joel was arrested.

Charlotte eased herself into the bed beside Lola, and lay on her side. Lola cuddled up close, slipping an arm around Charlotte, drawing her into the curve of her body.

“It’ll be all right, we’ll find a way to see him. If he was able to get messages to us here, then we’ll be able to help him, I know it.”

“I hope so,” whispered Charlotte. “I don’t think I can live without him.”

When Larry got home it was well after one. He was standing in the darkened bedroom, taking off his jacket, when Susan snapped on the bedside lamp. She peered at him through puffy slits.

“McKinnes called,” she said. “It was urgent. He’s left his home number. Where’ve you been? It’s after one...”

“I had some reports to finish,” Larry said, pulling off his tie, hating being there.

Susan threw back the bedclothes and swung her feet over the side of the bed. She stood up, reaching for her dressing gown. Confrontation time, he thought. Again. He went to the door.

“Where have you been?” Susan demanded.

He paused. “I just told you.”

“But McKinnes couldn’t find you!” Larry walked out, leaving his jacket over a chair where he had dumped it. Susan picked it up and took it to the | wardrobe. She smoothed the collar, disturbing something in the fabric. Perfume. She sniffed. Her brows tightened. She felt the pockets and pulled out three ticket stubs. She could hear Larry down in the hall talking on the phone. She stared at the flimsy slips of paper. Her mind i raced, but it had no direction. She was mystified. The door opened and she jumped. She hadn’t heard Larry put down the phone.

“Something happened?” she said, pocketing the stubs.

“It must have,” Larry said. “He wants me.”

She put her arms around him so swiftly and tightly that she surprised herself.

“You’re not going anywhere tonight,” she told him.

He looked at her awkwardly. She stood on her toes, lips puckered to kiss him on the mouth. He turned his head aside; it happened, he couldn’t avoid it. Susan released him and stood back.

“I’ll check on the boys,” he said.

Susan watched him walk out of the room again. She sighed, though it was hardly a sigh of resignation — she would never resign herself to being kept in the dark. She I slid back into bed and pulled the bedclothes up tight under her chin. She was careful to stay well over on her own side.

Next morning at eight-thirty McKinnes took Larry to the new safe house. Although it was clear that Larry had been reinstated, McKinnes had not actually said so, and he had not hinted at any reason. Larry thought it best, for the time being, to let events unroll without asking questions.

They sat in the unmarked patrol car for a minute, looking out at the sordid apartment block. Larry couldn’t believe it.

“Are we here?” he said, knowing they must be.

McKinnes sniffed. “What do you expect? A five-star hotel?”

Larry turned sharply, his defenses up, then realized it was only McKinnes’s baleful humor. The chief, fortunately, was hung over and didn’t notice the little flare of paranoia.

They got out of the car and entered the building. McKinnes used two keys to open the door of the apartment where Von Joel was being held, then he stood aside. He said he would be in touch later.

Larry went in and closed the door behind him. He found DI Shrapnel in a room that had obviously been designed for occupation by a child. A folded, forlorn-looking cot stood by the window; a tiny gas fire was built into the begrimed wall opposite. The two men nodded at each other. Their relationship, still profoundly basic, precluded the need for introductory daintiness. Shrapnel dangled a key.

“We keep him locked up when we’re off duty. This one’s for you, I keep the other. There’s two blokes out front, one at the back and another near the main entrance.”

Larry took the key. “How is he?”

“Same as ever.” Shrapnel shut the door. “I want to ask you something,” he said, his eyes hooded.

“What?”

“This herbal stuff, is it all for real?”

Larry made a face that didn’t say yes or no.

“You see” — Shrapnel moved closer, as if somebody might overhear — “I’ve had this problem, for years...” He broke off, cleared his throat. “This is personal, Jackson.”

“I appreciate that.”

“The thing is, I can’t get it up, know what I mean? And he...” He jerked his thumb at the wall. “Well, have you ever heard of this — he said I can get them from this guy he knows.” He fished a slip of paper from his pocket. “Patches. Put them on my dick. Tet... tetzozerone or something.”

Larry looked at the paper. “Testosterone,” he said.

“Yeah, that’s it.” Shrapnel took back the paper. He looked embarrassed. “They all know I’ve got the droop.” He shrugged. “Fact of life, nothing to be ashamed of. It’s overrated anyway.”

“Sorry?” Larry turned. He had been looking out the window. “What did you say?”

“Sex. I said it’s overrated.”

“No, it isn’t, Frank. Get the patches.”

After a hurried cup of coffee, which Larry promptly wished he had never drunk, he went along the passage and unlocked the door to Von Joel’s room. Von Joel was standing on his head against the wall. He came down, smiling. Larry went in and closed the door.

“Good to see you!” Von Joel punched Larry’s arm lightly. “I got you back on the case.”

“It’s not yours,” Larry said flatly. “You don’t give the orders, you don’t make the rules.”

Von Joel continued to smile, but there was a hardening in his eyes.

“Did you tell McKinnes about my girls?”

Larry stiffened. How could he possibly know...?

“Hey, come on.” Von Joel was frowning now. “What have I done to you that’s so bad?”

“You lied to me,” Larry said coldly. “I met your wife. Moyra.”

“Ah. I see. Moyra.” Von Joel smiled again, faintly. “You met Moyra.” He stepped closer. “Did you tell your wife about Lola? You tell some things, some you keep quiet about. Mickey? I never talked about Mickey. Not to anyone but you.”

“You never had a brother.”

Von Joel gripped Larry’s arm tightly. “I never lied to you,” he said.

Larry jerked free. He walked out of the room, banged the door shut, and locked it. Von Joel took a deep breath and let it out slowly, grinding a fist into the palm of his ^! hand as he scanned the flaw in his strategy.

Jackson was not the pushover he had thought. He started to control his breathing, forcing himself to rethink how he would approach Jackson now. Time was running out. He had to make his move fast, faster than he had anticipated. He had already heard Shrapnel talking about Reading. He knew about the holding cells there, and if he was moved it would be even more difficult to get out, if not impossible. Time was short. This shit hole might prove a better move than he could have anticipated. It was just Jackson. He had underestimated Jackson. That was a big mistake.